Honesty
by seddiefan2009
Summary: Sometimes time doesn't heal the wounds. Gen.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warning: This story is possibly the angstyst thing I've ever written. It doesn't have a happy ending, so if you don't like that kinda thing then turn around now. I promise it won't hurt my feelings.

It hurts. It hurts like nothing you've ever felt before. Your heart is literally breaking, dissolving into thousands of shard like pieces that are breaking into thousands of pieces of their own.

The ache is unbearable. Your chest ebbs and you aren't sure whether it feels empty, like a part of you is missing, or too full like there's a ton of bricks sitting on your sternum. What you do know is that you can't breathe. The very thought of taking a breath causes your entire body to shake and spasm in an ill-fated attempt to fight away the pain. The pain you know will never leave. And to be honest, you aren't sure you want it to.

Because if the pain leaves you aren't sure what will be left in its wake. Whether or not it would be replaced with a good feeling or whether it and you will fade to nothingness. And to be honest, you aren't sure which would be worse, not feeling at all or feeling too much.

You learned long ago not to get too attached to people. They _always_ let you down; it's just what people do after all. No one cares beyond themselves, their own selfish desires. And to be honest you don't know what bothers you more, the fact that it happens or the fact that you understand it so intimately that's stopped surprising you.

It's your own fault really; you should have seen it coming. You've only known her your entire miserable life. You've only spent every day with her, playing, talking, being friends. So maybe she hasn't been the best friend you've ever had but you haven't been all that great to her either. Whether that's because of your own grief, hers, or the fact that the best friend either of you ever had is long gone you aren't sure. And to be honest, you really hope it's your fault.

If it was your fault you could have done something, anything to stop it. If it was your fault it wasn't inevitable. If it was your fault you wouldn't be so very tempted to blame her, if for no other reason than to ease your own guilt. If it was your fault you, at some point on the timeline of your life had control over where you all ended up. Whether you have control over where you are now or not. And to be honest, you've become enough of a control freak that that matters to you, more than it should at any rate.

You often find yourself wishing you could to back to when life was easy. Back to when the worst problem you had was a server crashing. Before the accident that ruined four lives in under three seconds. You often think about what life would have been like if you did have control of it. The control you so desperately wish you had. To stop it, to heal it, to fix it. But you don't have that control, you never did. And to be honest, sometimes you hate yourself for letting it get this far.

When she died the world ended. The show ended. There was no way it could go on. Everything changed the second she picked up that fire extinguisher, the same way she had dozens of times before. Only she didn't make it out and the world couldn't make it without her. At least not yours. And to be honest, it was a comfort because a world without Carly Shay was a world you didn't want to live in.

But you did, however painful it might have been. To your surprise she moved on, you didn't. You spent your days starring at the ceiling in your bedroom and wishing you had gone with her. If anyone had asked you before the fire how Sam would take it you would've said that she couldn't. That she'd shut down. That she couldn't make it without Carly. But you were wrong, she did. She moved on, almost like Carly had never existed and you hated her for it. It wasn't until later that you saw the façade, the carefully painted mask that covered everything she did. You're sorry you didn't see it earlier; maybe this could have been stopped. But to be honest in the deep dark recesses of your mind, sometimes you aren't sorry you didn't see it, aren't sorry you didn't stop it.

Not because you didn't love her, because you did, but rather because now they're together. The way they were always destined to be. But you hate yourself for thinking it because what kind of best friend wishes death?

You move your head back and forth as you think about it. About how bad of a person you are. About the two women you'd loved. About the one you'd lost to the fire and the one you watched kill herself. You wrap your arms around your knees and rock more violently, not caring that you're disturbing your roommate.

That's when you feel them. The maggots, the ones you picture in your head. They're crawling over your body in no particular fashion and you're so overwhelmingly disgusted by them that you take a deep breath to stop your shaking and start trying to scratch them off. You can't see them, but it's dark and your mind has played tricks on you before so you just keep scratching. The problem is that the more you scratch the faster they multiply and there's nothing you can do to stop them except rip your own skin off. And so you try.

Suddenly a pair of forceful hands is holding you to the bed and you don't know what's going on so you fight back. The only thought in your head is the maggots and the need to be rid of them. You're thrashing every which way, not paying any sort of attention to the person holding you down until the needle goes into your arm and you're forced to relax. The maggot's are gone but there's a thick blanket, maybe even made of steel, that's laying over you. It's almost suffocating in its intensity.

As you allow the medicine to calm you, you hear the voice whisper, "Spencer, I'm sorry but tomorrow I'm going to have to take you back to the hospital." And you can't help but think that Freddie's doing the right thing by taking you back because, to be honest, as much as he needs you to be okay you don't want to be okay ever again.


End file.
